


Ravish Me

by spunknbite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Intercrural Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Rimming, Roleplay, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slavery, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tudor Era, misogynistic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunknbite/pseuds/spunknbite
Summary: He would Fall if he succumbed to this. Demonic temptation or not, Aziraphale was certain this would end him. He couldn’t consent to such an act, couldn’twillinglyhand himself over to be despoiled by a fiend.Ah, there’s the loophole.





	1. Chapter 1

_Rome, 41 AD_

It was because of the blasted laurels, Aziraphale decided after the fact.

The Emperor didn’t dole those out to just anyone, and it’s not like you can wander down to a jeweller in the Forum and put in a request for them either. They’re ceremonial, reserved for champions and Olympians, the greatest military leaders and heroes. Aziraphale had been flitting around the edges of the Empire - Sicily, Crete, Achaea, a vexing stop in Mauretania - for almost a decade now, and he knew very well what those laurels symbolized. On anyone aside from an athlete, they were a harbinger of trouble, at least under the current Emperor. He’d seen enough atrocities committed in Mauretania by men who’d later parade down the streets of Rome in pristine, unbloodied togas and sparkling laurel crowns to know that this sort of honour was bestowed on only the worst of those who served at the pleasure of Caligula. 

And then there _he_ was, Crawley - no - Crowley, drinking at the taberna, looking as out of place as a barbarian in that ridiculous get-up. But with those damnable laurels resting on his curls, he could have been mistaken for a statue at the Gardens of Sallust, his angled features modelled _just so_ to render him imperial. It was a shame, Aziraphale thought, that the military-chic style so consumed the Empire right now; he rather missed the demon’s long hair. Not that he dwelled on such a matter.

“In Rome long?”

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation.”

“Tempting anyone special?”

“Emperor Caligula. Frankly, he doesn’t actually need any tempting to be appalling. Going to report it back to head office as a flaming success. You?” So the laurels were just theatre then. Aziraphale was inexplicably relieved, knowing that he wasn’t involved in Mauretania or the failed campaign in Britannia, or in Caligula’s day-to-day cruelty for that matter. 

“They want me to influence a boy called Nero. I thought I’d get him interested in music. Improve him.”

“Couldn’t hurt. So, what else are you up to while you’re in Rome?”

“I thought I’d go to Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

“I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

“Oh, well let me tempt you to ... oh no, no that’s your job, isn’t it?”

The demon looked at him appraisingly, as if judging a fruit at a market stall before purchasing it, and then he smiled for the first time during their chance meeting, and Aziraphale smiled back because _how could he not_.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he invited him along, or even why he felt so compelled by his company that he would risk a sanction, at the very least, from head office for just a meal with a member of the opposition. After all, he hardly knew Crowley, apart from that they were supposed to be hereditary enemies, but what little he saw of him always seemed to indicate that he wasn’t _bad_ , per se; he was Fallen and fiendish, but perhaps that could coincide with being amicable and diverting, and maybe, if Aziraphale really let his mind stray, handsome too. 

The restaurant was on the eastern end of the Forum Iulium, little more than a hole-in-the-wall for the lesser Roman citizen. Anyone worth anything would have hired a chef to privately cater at their domus, but the gustatio of oysters was excellent regardless. Not as excellent as his company, Aziraphale admitted to no one, but that was neither here nor there.

“You’re enjoying Gaul, then?” Aziraphale asked as the duck was served. 

“It’s alright. Not as lavish as Rome, but it has its perks. The government is pretty lax up there, lets me get away with more than I could here. And the Rhine is nice. No oysters though.”

“Have you travelled much?”

“Here and there. Celtica, Belgica, and Germania mostly.” 

“And the people there? Are they - ” Aziraphale searched for the right word, settling on “temptable?”

“The Druids were a stubborn bunch, bit dull and ornery, but I actually miss the bastards now that the Romans declared open season on them. Guess that was your lot’s doing?”

“My lot?”

“Heaven. Wipe out the Pagans? Seems up your alley.” 

“I told you before I’m not consulted on policy decisions.”

Crowley smirked. “Sorry, angelus, didn’t mean to offend.”

The back of Aziraphale’s neck prickled, and an inconspicuous but undeniable shiver travelled across his body. He was accustomed to being in control of this earthly vessel, able to manage its internal mechanisms without obstacle, but now his pulse quickened and he fought to keep his face from flushing. _Angelus angelus angelus_ resonated in his mind. He supposed the term was appropriate, but the provocative tilt of Crowley’s lips suggested something else, and Aziraphale tried to dismiss it from his thoughts.

*

*

*

Dismissal proved unsuccessful. Aziraphale walked the meandering flint path back to his domus on the west side of the city. Crowley had left after their shared meal, headed downstairs to deliver his glowing report on the temptation of Emperor Caligula no doubt, and Aziraphale had the rest of the evening ahead of him. He considered a nightcap at another taberna, or crashing his neighbour’s Compitalia party, but his heart was racing, face flushed from both wine and libidinous speculation that he couldn’t shake. 

_Angelus_.

He wasn’t fit to socialize, and certainly not to drink any more. Passing the Baths of Agrippa, Aziraphale considered that a dip in the frigidarium might set his mind at ease, but he’d always found the icy water needlessly painful, preferring the relaxing heat of the caldarium. The light chill in the air propelled him home, past the baths and into the Campus Martius, where his domus was situated.

It was on a quiet side street, away from the commotion of the Theatrum Pompeium and the nightlife there. A small house by upper-class Roman standards, it was palatial compared to most every place Aziraphale had spent the last few millennia. The mosaic decorating the floor of the atrium was a geometric pattern of interlocking squares that Aziraphale always admired upon entry - it was a grand, complex design that required the skill of a gifted craftsman to accomplish - but tonight he paid it no attention as he stepped across to get to his cubiculum without summoning the servants to fetch so much as an evening snack, as he was usually apt to do.

_Angelus._

How to interpret it? How to interpret the look that accompanied it? In the privacy of his room, Aziraphale stripped down to his tunic and sat upon his bed, hands rubbing his temples as he struggled with the carnality of it all.

Crowley was a _demon_. He could not be having such vulgar fantasies about him. About anyone really, but especially about him. It was as degenerate a notion as Aziraphale could fathom, even if Crowley seemed a respectable demon, if there even was such a thing. And how could he possibly assume that Crowley was as honest as he presented anyway? He was, Aziraphale reminded himself for the millionth time that night, a lying, villainous _demon;_ it was in his job description to be enticing. This was certainly all some sort of elaborate temptation to make him Fall, to recruit additional damned souls for Hell and undermine the Almighty. 

Except Aziraphale didn’t actually think that, he realized. Some innate part of him trusted Crowley to a degree that was, frankly, reckless. 

He shouldn’t lust after him - he shouldn’t lust at all - and yet, burned into his mind like hellfire was Crowley’s voice calling him _angelus_ , spoken not as a title or designation, but in affection, an intimate endearment the likes of which Aziraphale was never supposed to experience. The raised eyebrow, the tilt of his lips; it sounded propositional almost, and Aziraphale gripped the edge of the bed as he thought of Crowley whispering _angelus_ to him again, here, mouth against the shell of his ear, hot breath on his neck, bodies pressed against one another like those in the mosaics at the baths.

He would Fall if he succumbed to this. Demonic temptation or not, Aziraphale was certain this would end him. He couldn’t consent to such an act, couldn’t _willingly_ hand himself over to be despoiled by a fiend.

Ah, there’s the loophole.

 _Those damn laurels._

But what if, Aziraphale opined while laying back on the embroidered blankets of his bed, what if Crowley’s show of military esteem had been real, what if he hadn’t just been acting the laureled hero for the sake of a job, but actually was one - perhaps an elite member of the Praetorian Guard, Aziraphale thought, conjuring images of the distinctive purple and black armour that adorned those sworn to personally protect the Emperor at all costs - Aziraphale would have no choice in the matter then, not if he was just a lowly human with no divine gifts from Heaven to rely on. Crowley could just take him as he pleased, consent or not. In such a fantasy Aziraphale would be blameless in the matter, an unwilling victim; it seemed permissible, _forgivable._

Caligula’s guards had a reputation for savagery, both in the name of duty and in downtime. The previous summer’s Vulcanalia celebrations at the Circus Maximus had come to a barbarous head when a group of them had thrown a section of the audience into the lion pit because the prisoner population was insufficient to meet their bloody desires. They took what they wanted, were scorned from brothels and slave markets alike because of their brutality, and served no moral authority aside from Caligula’s. He would be at Crowley’s complete mercy, if he was such a man.

Aziraphale inhaled shakily. His body felt awakened, alive and prickling in a manner that he never experienced outside of Crowley’s company, and a tight, discomforting ache thrummed in his abdomen. It was a human sensation, earthly. Where would Crowley find him, if they were these people instead of themselves? Aziraphale swallowed and closed his eyes.

_He was cornered in the apodyterium, the changing rooms, of the Baths of Agrippa. He’s a slave, Greek maybe, charged with guarding his Dominus’ belongings while he socialized with the other citizens in the public chambers of the baths. It was late in the evening and Aziraphale was settled on a stone bench in a solitary alcove of the changing rooms, withdrawn from the few remaining slaves. Perhaps he amused himself by admiring the fine mosaics on the walls surrounding him; a love scene with a shapely nude nymph and a satyr adorned the archway to his alcove, and Aziraphale surveyed the small pieces of limestone that comprised it, wondering where in the Empire they were mined, how far they’d travelled to rest in such a place._

_He paid no mind to the approaching footsteps The Baths of Agrippa were among the safest in the city, and in all his years accompanying his Dominus here, he'd never encountered any danger. Aziraphale’s presence was less a precaution for his Dominus’ belongings and more a mark of his Dominus’ status. It showed that he had so many slaves that he could spare one to watch his things for an evening. And so he was taken aback when Crowley -_ not Crowley, he doesn’t know him as Crowley, he reminded himself, eyes still closed, face pushed into the cushion to conceal the deepening flush across his face and neck - _when a Praetorian Guard rounded the corner into his deserted recess._

 _Dressed in civilian attire, he was still unmistakably military. He was clothed in a toga, standard for off-duty personnel in the city’s limits, but also shawled in a striking lion-skin cape that clearly marked his status as a high-ranking military official. A crown of laurels ornamented his red hair. It was an ostentatious act to wear such regalia outside of ceremony, and Aziraphale doubted that anyone with humility or any virtue at all would do so without reservation. He wore no glasses, and his yellow eyes -_ Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat _\- targeted the slave predatorily._

_“All alone at this time of night? You must be seeking trouble,” he drawled._

_“I’m just doing my Dominus’ bidding, keeping his things secure.”_

_“Stealing from the other patrons more like.”_

_“I’m not a criminal.”_

_“You’re a slave.” It’s not a question._

_“Yes.”_  
_  
_ “ _Then you should address me with some respect.” The guard advanced close enough that Aziraphale was now truly cornered, and he instinctively pressed his back against the glazed terracotta tiles behind him. “You’re stealing to buy your freedom then?”_

_“I told you I’m not a thief.” His voice was steadier than he felt. He knew the reputation of Caligula’s men, and had heard the stories whispered by other slaves during quiet moments - stories of so-and-so’s sister or cousin or childhood friend who was unlucky enough to encounter one of them in an ill temper._

_“That’s not how you address your superior, slave.” The guard smirked and raised an eyebrow as if setting a challenge, baiting him on. Aziraphale swallowed, and took a measure of comfort in the cool tile on the back of his clammy neck. He glanced down the corridor of the changing rooms; surely someone would hear this, surely his Dominus was almost finished and would return shortly._

_“I don’t know your title.”_

_The guard’s smirk broadened. “You can call me Dominus Crowley for the moment.”_

_“You’re not - ”_

_“You’re not in a position to refuse.”_

Aziraphale breathed heavily and clutched the ivory inlays of the bedpost. The tightness in his abdomen had spread shamefully lower, causing his body to ache in ways that it rarely had. When he had yearned like this in the past, it had been easy enough to ignore, easy enough to miracle himself out of this vulnerable, _wanting_ state. Now though, he couldn’t have diverted himself if he wanted to; the fantasy of Crowley’s covetous eyes focused on him alone was too overwhelming.

_The guard was right. He wasn’t in a position to refuse. “Dominus Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered._

_“That’s much better. You know your place, don’t you? You’ll behave like the dutiful slave you are?” Crowley was close enough that he could lean over Aziraphale, palms resting on the terracotta on either side of Aziraphale’s head so that he was effectively pinned to the bench, their faces so near that Aziraphale could feel his breath. He’d been drinking honeyed wine._

_“I don’t know what you’re asking me.”_  
_  
“I think you do.”_

 _The kiss was brutal, nothing like the love scenes painted on the walls of his Dominus’ cubiculums or like the Grecian poets described in their odes. Crowley seized Aziraphale’s jaw and tilted his head up to his, and then crashed their lips together, forcing Aziraphale’s lips apart with his forked tongue -_ Aziraphale muffled a whine with his cushion, his fingertips tracing and retracing circles on his inner thigh as he fought to keep them above the fabric of his loincloth - _and his tongue drove in, inhumanly long, almost gagging him. The guard drew a quick breath but didn’t allow Aziraphale the time, and then pulled his blonde hair so that his head tilted further back still; he pressed their lips together again, and Aziraphale choked trying to inhale._

_This time Crowley bit down, drawing blood from Aziraphale’s lower lip. He cried out and managed to twist away, throwing himself forward off the bench in an attempt to run, but Crowley caught his wrists, and restrained him against the wall._

_“That’s not wise,” he hissed, baring his pointed teeth -_ Aziraphale slipped his fingers under his loincloth, fingernails digging into the flesh of his inner thighs - _and he nipped Aziraphale’s throat, sharp canines grazing across the sensitive skin of his Adam’s apple. “Servus non habet personam. I can do whatever I want with you.”_

_“My Dominus - ”_

_“I’ll pay him if I damage you too badly.”_

_“You still have no right.”_

_He grinned wickedly and cupped Aziraphale’s face, stroking it in a mockery of kindness. “I have all the rights, and you have none. What do you suppose would happen if I spoke with your Dominus and told him you stole from me? Do you have enough faith in him to test it?” Aziraphale was silent. “Stealing from a Praetorian Guard; that’s quite a crime. Do you think he’d sell you? No principled citizen would buy you with that accusation over your head. Maybe you’d end up at a brothel. I could visit you.” He was still petting Aziraphale’s face, thumbing the blood dripping from his lip. “Or would he spare you that degradation and just have you executed?”_

_Aziraphale felt a tear fall down his cheek, which Crowley caressed away. He didn’t want this -_ God in Heaven, he wanted this - _and he knew there was no way out, no possible escape from someone so protected by the Emperor._

 _“Why me?” He managed._

_Crowley held him fast to the wall, pinning his hands above his head at an uncomfortable angle. He covered Aziraphale’s body with his own so that Aziraphale could feel every sharp ridge of his frame. “You could be an angelus with those wide eyes.”_ Aziraphale’s breath hitched and his fingers edged closer to his sex, now rigid and pulsing with his rapid heartbeat. He could almost feel Crowley pressing against him, almost smell the sweet red wine he’d been drinking. His voice was so clear in his mind, so deliberate and cool; crueler than it actually was, but still unmistakably _Crowley_ , and the way he purred _angelus_ \- it was too much. His desperation peaking, Aziraphale grasped his arousal with an inexperienced hand. He had assumed that one’s own touch would feel innocuous, familiar; but here, eyes squeezed shut, thinking of Crowley possessing him, his own fingers almost burned his skin. “ _Not many blonde-haired, blue-eyed men in Rome; you look positively virginal, innocent. Something out of a painting.”_ He stroked upwards experimentally and his hips jerked in response to his own trembling touch. He felt aflame, a pyre. _“Not a look I can just walk by without spoiling.”_ He bit his lip to keep from keening, and pushed his tunic up and loincloth down, freeing himself completely as he continued to explore, images of Crowley’s eyes so filled with lust for him that he’d be willing to take him by force if necessary.

 _His Dominus would come soon, he prayed; this would all end soon. But Crowley was pressed so tightly against him that he can feel his -_ Aziraphale squeezed the root of his cock and failed to contain a small moan - _arousal, jutting transparently through his toga, and Aziraphale struggled weakly against the numbing grip on his wrists. “Don’t fight, angelus,” he murmured._

_The guard kissed him again, devouring him from within. He licked the smeared blood off his lower lip and chin, sucking the wound clean, and Aziraphale whimpered at the pressure. He was starting to lose feeling in his arms._

_And as if he could sense it, Crowley said, “I’m going to let you arms go, and you’re going to be a good slave and not fight. Isn’t that right?”_

_Aziraphale nodded, eyes cast downwards._

_“I want to hear it.”_

_“Yes.”_  
_  
“Yes what?”_

_“Yes, Dominus Crowley.”_

_“You’re so clever.” He released his wrists and Aziraphale lowered his arms, rubbing circulation back into them as Crowley stared at him intently, eyes hooded with greed. “Take off your tunic.”_

Aziraphale’s pace was as languid as he could manage. His eyes shut, mind rapt in the fantasy that spilled effortlessly from his imagination, he stroked himself steadily, easing his tempo every time the debauched ache inside him swelled. The sensation was so foreign from anything angels were created to feel, and perhaps because of this, it was all-consuming, paralyzing; to imagine that it was Crowley’s hands on him, teasing him - no, he kept focused on the theatre at hand, refusing to let himself entertain the notion that this could come to pass, that he could willingly give himself over to a demon. No, instead: _he complied, turning away to hide his shame from the guard as he shed his only article of clothing aside from his loincloth._ _Crowley took Aziraphale by the arm and forced him to face him. “Take off everything. I want to see you,” he growled._ Yes, that was it. He caressed his thumb over the sensitive slit and cried out, muffling his sob with his free hand. The servants couldn’t be permitted to hear; he needed to maintain some modicum of civility in spite of the wantonness he felt.

_Aziraphale shuddered as he stepped out of his loincloth. He was flushed scarlet, head turned so he could avoid Crowley’s animal gaze. The guard’s hands were on him again, long fingers digging possessively into his forearms as he was guided back so that his haunches hit the terracotta wall behind him. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t permit you to wear clothing.” Crowley leaned Aziraphale’s head to one side, exposing his neck’s naked flesh so that he could mark him with his mouth, sucking the pale skin until it was bruised and tender. Aziraphale stifled a cry. “Let them hear you. It won’t do you any good.” Crowley’s mouth carved more bruises into his skin. Up his neck and above his collarbone, the guard nipped him, his fangs threatening his jugular with each bruising kiss._

_Crowley released his forearms, and Aziraphale’s fingers sought something, anything, to hold on to, some solid, reassuring object to clutch. The walls behind him were glazed smooth, and his hands grasped at them pathetically, desperate for any reassurance, no matter how meaningless. The guard dropped his lion skin without ceremony, and then shifted his toga, pulling his arousal free while otherwise still dressed. He was -_ Aziraphale inhaled, hand speeding up - _long and lean and threatening, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear it._

_“Please. I’ve never - ”_

_Crowley turned him roughly so that he faced the wall, interrupting his appeal; Aziraphale caught himself and gripped an uneven tile, fingers scrambling for purchase as the guard’s hands fluttered -_ no, he’d be rougher, much rougher - _as the guard’s hands seized his thighs and forced his legs apart. Aziraphale leaned over to keep his balance, forehead resting on his forearms._

_“That’s it,” Crowley rasped, brushing his cleft with a thin digit._

_“Please,” Aziraphale pleaded again, “I’ve never done this. I don’t want it like this.”_

_Crowley’s hands spread his cheeks apart and Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, face burning from the disgrace of it; he’d never been touched there, he’d never been touched anywhere, and now this stranger, this imperial thug, had him splayed out publicly, handling him more intimately than he’d ever permitted anyone else. Devastated tears suddenly wet his face, dripping off his chin to his collarbone as he struggled to breathe._

_“What a pretty, weeping angelus.” Crowley smoothed his hair, stroking the blonde locks in a show of affection that only made Aziraphale cry harder, his body shaking._

_A shuffle of fabric and the pop of a bottle uncapping. Aziraphale refused to look, head still buried in his arms, as he heard a slick rubbing and then a bottle tossed carelessly on the tiled floor with a clatter that echoed throughout the apodyterium. This man was so reckless, Aziraphale thought, but he could afford to be; he was above any possible punishment his Dominus or any magistrate could ordain. Crowley’s laurels sparkled in the smoky light of the nearest oil lamp, reflecting the tiled ceiling in their leaves. Whatever he did to him, there’d be no consequences. Aziraphale was powerless._

Oh Lord, please. His cock was leaking; silken droplets trickled down his arousal, and Aziraphale eased his strokes, collecting the beads on his fingers to slicken his grip, while wondering if Crowley had ever done this. What would Crowley look like? Who would Crowley think about? Surely, he must have... 

_“No.” His voice was little more than a mewl, congested with tears and snot._

_Crowley spread his cheeks again, his thumbs pinching his porcelain skin, and Aziraphale felt the blunt length of his oiled cock thrust along his cleft, stroking the maiden flesh there. Aziraphale braced himself for pain that never came. Crowley massaged one of his cheeks, squeezing and releasing in time with his thrusts, as his cock slid along his cleft, teasing his tight hole as if threatening - I could take you right here, right now, and there’s nothing you could do to stop it._

Aziraphale moaned and rocked his hips up, desperate for more friction. He was so close, too close. He felt it by instinct though not experience, and he didn’t want this to end. He wasn’t _finished_ with this fantasy yet. He couldn’t return to this world again, he knew; it was too dangerous, a clear descent into abandon and depravity and _Hell_ , and letting himself sink into this delusion would only lead to his damnation. Just a few more minutes, just a little while longer and he’d be satisfied, he was sure. He clinched the base of his arousal, trying to stop himself from cresting, trying to delay what must be inevitable.

_“Beg me and maybe I won’t fuck you.” Crowley’s voice was hoarse, and his length was still sheathed inside Aziraphale’s cleft, dragging against his hole with increasing pressure._

_“Please,” he didn’t recognize his voice; he’s panicked and crying and ruined. “Please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”_  
_  
“You can do better.” Crowley fisted his cock and rubbed it against his virgin hole, testing it, testing Aziraphale._

 _“Dominus, please. Anything else, please.”_ Please please please, Lord in Heaven, please. Just let this last a little longer, let him be Crowley’s to possess if only here, only now.

_“I think you want thisss,” he hissed. “You’re just protesting for appearances. Wouldn’t want your Dominus finding out that you’d bend over for any man who approaches you.” Crowley’s hand strayed between Aziraphale’s plump thighs and caressed his soft cock._

_“No, please. I always thought it would be d-different if it happened. Not like this.” He wrenched his head off his arms and turned as much as he could to face his attacker, imploring inhuman eyes with his own._

_Something eased in Crowley’s expression as their eyes met. His smirk softened to something resembling pity, and his eyes held Aziraphale’s gaze, as if searching him, and Crowley, the Crowley Aziraphale knew and not this imaginary beast he’d invented, peeked briefly through the fantasy,_ and for a shadow of a moment, Aziraphale let his mind wander to what it would be like if Crowley were _here_ now, in his bed and between his legs, his sinewy fingers stroking him like Aziraphale did himself, his other hand parting his thighs, his lips painted with a warm grin that felt like home...but no, he couldn’t let himself fall into that trap; he couldn’t let himself Fall at all.

 _“Hush, angelus.”_ It was almost Crowley’s voice, almost something he might say to Aziraphale, if everything was different and the universe permitted it. _“I won’t hurt you. Close your legs.” Aziraphale was still crying, hot tears streaking his face as he shut his legs and wrested forward unsteadily, trying to get away, to put as much space between them as he could._

 _“Oh no, I’m not done with you,” and Aziraphale was pulled back, face to the wall, bent forward again. “You’re still too tempting to walk away from. Keep your thighs nice and tight together for me.” Crowley’s body shielded Aziraphale’s, one hand holding his hip in place, the other meeting Aziraphale’s hand with threaded fingers -_ no, no - _the other restraining his wrist, keeping him pinned to the wall like a harlot. “You may not want to be fucked, but I can tell you’re wanton. Those innocent blue eyes aren’t fooling me, angelus. You want me.” Aziraphale felt the push of Crowley’s hips against his ass, and the flared head of his cock burrowed between his heavy thighs, slicking his perineum with oil as he rolled his hips forward. Aziraphale cried out._

The room was spinning. Aziraphale released his grip on his cock and pushed three fingers between his thighs, rubbing the responsive, untouched skin between his hole and cock, his digits skimming the seam of his sack until they hit the base of his erection. Visions of Crowley using his body for his own pleasure raced through his mind, and he traced the puckered flesh between his thighs, envisioning Crowley’s cock following his fingers’ path, grinding against his balls with an obscene flesh-on-flesh sound that Aziraphale could only imagine but he desperately wanted. 

_Aziraphale sobbed as Crowley’s cock rutted against him. The sensation was alien, the skin there sensitive; each thrust made him shiver, enflaming his traitorous body as Crowley’s cock sparked nerves he hadn’t known existed. It rasped over his scrotum, sliding over and over again into the base of Aziraphale’s hardening arousal._

_“There, that’s it. You want it.”_

Yes, yes. Give it to me.

_“I don’t.” Aziraphale took a shuddering breath, the ache between his legs becoming unbearable._

_“You do.” Crowley angled upwards and struck a sensitive gland along his seam, and Aziraphale keened, hips jerking to meet his thrusts. “You were built for this.” Crowley squeezed the creamy fat of his thighs, forcing them firmly together._

_Crowley’s thrusts were aggressive, urgent, and the tip of his cock peeked out lewdly between the Aziraphale’s thighs with every roll of his hips. Aziraphale’s own arousal bobbed against his stomach, hard and needy and unwanted. He ached to be touched, to be relieved of this desperation forced on him, but he didn’t dare touch himself. He couldn’t succumb to it._

Aziraphale’s fingers dug into a sensitive patch of skin just behind his sack, and he clenched his thighs together creating a wondrous friction, imagining how Crowley would hold his legs tight against each other like this, _using_ him. His untouched erection throbbed in need, slick with its own desire. 

_“You don’t have to suffer through this.” Crowley led Aziraphale’s pinned hand from the wall to his flushed cock. “Let me help you, angelus.”_

Yes, please help me. I’ll take anything you’ll give me.

_“Not with you.”_

_“Then close your eyes and think of whoever you fancy then.” Crowley splayed Aziraphale’s fingers and intertwined them with his own, before running their locked hands up Aziraphale’s arousal -_ he groaned, hand returning to his own flesh, so close, so intolerably close - _and Aziraphale sobbed, hips bucking in need as Crowley fucked his thighs in time with his strokes. “That’s it,” he breathed, “Just let me have you.”_

You have me. I’m yours.

_Aziraphale wanted to say something, wanted to scream and yell and protest and insist that he wasn’t letting him have anything. None of this was his willing. He wanted to bite and hit and flail, but it was all too much. The heat from Crowley’s body was overwhelming, his grip on his cock burned with every caress, and the smack of Crowley’s slick arousal against his sack made Aziraphale spasm, knees weak, clutching the wall for balance._

_Crowley groaned and thrust in fully, and Aziraphale felt him tense, his hands tightened around Aziraphale’s cock, and his body went rigid as cum splattered Aziraphale’s thighs, hot and wet and dripping garishly -_ and Aziraphale gasped, the sensation hitting him without warning. He was falling, not Falling, but it still must have felt something like this, like this uncontrolled, unstoppable dive into abandon, consequences be damned. His body contracted and pleasure spilled from him, rapturous. It was abhorrent and sinful and _perfect,_ and surely Crowley must have tried this before, right? 

His hand was sticky, his thighs chafed, his breathing laboured as he opened his eyes not to the apodyterium, but to his lonely cubiculum. 

He’d be gentle, Aziraphale allowed himself to think. If it had truly been Crowley and not some fictitious villain. He’d support Aziraphale’s weight when his legs gave out from the shaking, let Aziraphale sag into him, limp. He’d bury his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and kiss the small hollow there. He’d whisper “angelus” and “mine” as Aziraphale regained his composure. He’d suggest a bath to get cleaned up, and he’d play with Aziraphale’s damp hair as they lounged in the caldarium. He’d whisper stories of Gaul and tell him he wanted to show him the Rhine.

Instead - _Crowley left him slumped and crying on the tiled floor, thighs splattered with lust. What reason was there for him to stay?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org).  
> Talk to me on [Tumblr](https://spunknbite.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spunknbite).


	2. Chapter 2

_London, 1601 AD_

He succumbed again, too many times to name. Not to the real Crowley, of course, who seemed decent - for a demon - and certainly not the terrible sort of person who’d ever do what Aziraphale _wanted_ of him. No, instead he succumbed to his reveries, where Crowley was rough and brutal and demanding, a creature fitting his hellfire origins; interested in Aziraphale only as much as he could use his mouth and thighs and ass, and Aziraphale was always blameless in the encounter, always the victim of Crowley’s lust, the one captured, stolen, _taken_. No blood on his hands, so to speak. No willful participation in such heady sins.

The context changed, but the story was much the same.

He ate a quiet dinner with Crowley in the Norfolk countryside and together they watched Boudica’s rebel army ready the war chariots, and then later that evening _Crowley_ stripped him of Roman robes and punished him for the Celtic blood spilled in free Britannia, a rune-inscribed dagger held to Aziraphale’s neck as he was forced to his knees, told that if he made it any good, maybe his life would be spared, maybe he’d be allowed to run back to Rome to warn the other imperialists of the fates awaiting them if they incurred again.

In a forest not far from the North Sea, Crowley showed Aziraphale a felled old-growth oak, fingers running across the rugged bark with a deference Aziraphale pointedly ignored, all the while chattering about how the steerboard would revolutionize sea travel. Some decades after, _Crowley_ , hair wild and braided, bent Aziraphale over the altar of a small, coastal monastery and demanded his order’s relics. There was no gold or silver, no chalices or jewelled goblets, just a nail from the cross, dubious in origin despite the order’s claim otherwise. _Crowley_ planted his axe in a nearby pew, and unfastened Aziraphale’s belt.

Centuries and scores of fantasies later, Aziraphale happened upon Crowley sowing wheat near the muddy banks of the Seine, and afterwards _Crowley_ listened impatiently to Aziraphale’s pleas for leniency on the rent - the harvest was poor, the crops blighted, but surely kind _Lord Crowley_ could understand that Aziraphale was an honest tenant, and he’d pay his debts with next season’s bounty - and _Crowley_ offered only a question in return: how would Aziraphale pay him in the meantime?

They saw each other more frequently as the centuries passed, due in large part to their arrangement, or so Crowley would claim, but the demon was always so eager to pop up, drop by, _save Aziraphale’s sorry ass_ that he knew it wasn’t just business, wasn’t limited to a convenient deal to shirk work. Crowley leaned in too close, smiled too easily, quirked his eyebrow in suggestion of something Aziraphale couldn’t allow himself to dwell on, at least _not_ _here, not now, not when we’re actually us and not blameless fictions._ The fantasies were theatre, safe and distanced, and without the risks inherent to _fraternizing_ with Crowley. And even in these fictions, Aziraphale would never consent, never just give into sorely-desired temptation. That had to amount to something. His virtue was as intact as he could will it, given the circumstances. Crowley was the circumstances.

He found the play-acting of the actual theatre comforting, and Aziraphale frequented The Rose, Blackfriars, The Swan, and The Globe with some regularity. The actors slipped into other people's skins, inhabited roles that might be villainous or desperate, depraved or indifferent, and they emerged unaffected, still themselves. It was a mirror to baptism, Aziraphale supposed, to sink into lurid depths but surface unchanged, still righteous. It was something he held onto.

And that’s why they met at The Globe on more than one occasion. Not only because it was usually inconspicuous, but also it made for a nice change to everyday life.

It was too bad _Hamlet_ was doing so poorly. It really did have some lovely passages, and Burbage was always a thrill onstage. He was the only actor capable of romanticizing Shakespeare’s version of Richard III, Aziraphale suspected. When it had premiered, Aziraphale would often pass by crowds of fans outside the theatre, hoping to glimpse the famous thespian as he left for the evening. Southwark was always an eclectic mix of people, and all sorts had waited outside the theatre door those nights.

Shame about _Hamlet_ , though.

“Yeah. All right. I’ll do that one. My treat.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale perked up.

“I still prefer the funny ones.”

Aziraphale smiled and returned to his grapes. For all his brass, Crowley’s taste did run to the comedies. Several months prior Aziraphale had suggested they catch _As You Like It_ before it finished its run, and Crowley had honest-to-God enjoyed himself without a whiff of irony. They hadn’t bothered to spring for seats, and it was a packed house that afternoon, so they crammed together on the floor, Aziraphale feeling the vibration of Crowley’s chest as he laughed and the warmth of his exhale on a cool fall day by the water. It would have been so easy, Aziraphale had thought at the time, to slip just a little closer, brush their hands together for just a moment. For as much as they saw each other these days, they rarely touched. Aziraphale suspected it was purposeful on Crowley’s part; it certainly was on his. No need to tempt himself.

He stayed for the remainder of _Hamlet_ , eating more grapes and springing for an exotic orange too, and he supposed he should return to his house off of Borough High Street to prepare for Edinburgh, but the evening was upon him as Burbage took his bow, and the stars had just begun to shine over the Thames, clear above the jutting towers of royal London, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder which ones Crowley had designed. He didn’t talk much of _before_.

How did it go?

_Doubt thou the stars are fire;_

_Doubt that the sun doth move;_

_Doubt truth to be a liar;_

_But never doubt I love._

More people should hear that.

Aziraphale doddled along the banks of the Thames, finding the constellations with some difficulty. He really _should_ know them better. Crowley pointed them out with enough frequency whenever the light was dim enough, even sometimes when it wasn’t. _Was that one Aquila? Maybe._ It was hard though to pay much attention to the Heavens when Crowley was with him, eyes gleaming as he traced shapes in the sky with his artist’s fingers. He was more captivating than some celestial explosions light years away. He was more captivating than just about anything Aziraphale had yet encountered in God’s creation.

Maybe all demons were like that. Maybe they were branded with a tempting fire when they Fell. Maybe he’d find any demon enticing; he’d only met the one.

Maybe. But Aziraphale doubted it.

A shout woke him from his reverie. “Begone. You’re unwanted here, you artless miscreant,” a familiar voice echoed from the theatre - Richard III, Henry V, Caesar, Romeo - Burbage was shuffling a rakish man away from the side entrance of The Globe, while a young lad stood wide-eyed behind him.

The man took a drunken swing, and Aziraphale knocked him down to the cobblestone with a snap of his fingers. “You’re unwise to stay. Begone, I said, before I strike you down so that you remain there,” Burbage threatened.

The man stood unsteadily and stumbled away towards the brothel houses down the alley, cursing, and Aziraphale approached.

“I say, are you all right?”

Burbage looked up, recognizing him from the audience. “Yes, Master - ?”

“Fell.”

“We’re fair, good Master Fell. A craven lout, nothing more.”

“Do those sorts berattle you often?”

“Not myself, not anymore. It’s the young lads who draw them,” he gestured to the boy behind him, who Aziraphale now recognized as Ophelia. “Loathsome scullions who can’t discern the theatre from the whorehouse.”

“Oh my. You’re quite fine, lad?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Well,” Aziraphale straightened his coat, “I do hope that rogue does not return. The theatre is no place for such knavery.” Burbage nodded to the harlot across the street bartering with another drunken sot, and smirked.

“Unacquainted with Southwark, are you?”

“Rose tinted spectacles and all that.” Burbage furrowed his brow. “No matter, the performance today was so absorbing. I do suspect it will catch on.”

“I certainly hope so, anon. I read for Johnson’s new satire. Instead I’m playing to an empty house surrounded by prostitutes and drunkards.”

“Give it time.”

“Master Fell, was it? We must take our leave. Good even, but I do hope to see you again.” Burbage stretched out his hand. “Richard. Should you ever wish to tour the playhouse, I’m contracted hither for three months.” The side of his mouth slanted upwards in a smile that Aziraphale understood to mean something other than his words conveyed directly. “Your _friend_ from the audience is welcome too.”

Aziraphale flushed. Good Lord.

*

*

*

He knew the script by now. He’d rehearsed it for centuries. The settings shifted, the costumes changed, but the essence of the characters remained. Archetypal. Mythological.

Laying in his feathered bed, staring at the wooden panelled canopy and the fine linen that draped over it, Aziraphale could picture the scene so clearly that he almost didn’t need to close his eyes: _the tawdry alley behind The Globe, dotted with brothels and bear baiters alike, its patrons - scoundrels, charlatans, harlots - conducting their various businesses, the smell of smoke and cheap ale perfuming the air._

_And there he’d be, leaning against the back of The Globe in costume, getting air after the final curtain call. It may have been an open-air theatre but the backstage was still stuffy, crowded, oppressive after two hours of belting lines and hitting marks and rapid costume changes, and his dress was corseted far too tight to shuffle around and undress his many layers with a dozen other actors doing the same in such a small space. He was content to wait until backstage cleared, content to listen to the burgeoning evening in Southwark._

Aziraphale knew he looked far too old to play the female roles. He knew the boys cast as the heroines were rarely older than seventeen or eighteen; all were slight with feminine faces and treble voices still yet unaffected by puberty. But it was easy enough to envision himself as a youth, what he would have looked like had he ever had a youth that is. Slighter, perhaps, but only somewhat. Aziraphale imagined a corset would look quite fetching over his curves - something to try out sometime; he’d never dressed as a woman when such undergarments were fashionable - and with a few less lines around his eyes. He’d fit the part, well enough for his purposes anyway.

_And so Aziraphale watched the prostitutes coerce their customers and the dastards swagger from the public houses, while breathing in the cool evening air as he sweat off his makeup, small beads of perspiration collecting at the nape of his wig._

_Rosalind: daughter of a duke, lover to Orlando, occasionally known as Ganymede, and the protagonist of_ As You Like It _. Not just a speaking role, not just a sidekick or comic relief, but the heroine, the lead, the star, and Aziraphale had opened the show to acclaim, to an audience with Queen Elizabeth herself nonetheless. The performances since then had been packed, and there was talk of extending it to doubles to meet demand. It was exhausting and the theatre was a madhouse and Will would never cease amending the script minutes before a performance, but it was sublime and everything he’d wanted since he’d begun apprenticing._

_He smoothed out the fine damask blue kirtle of his skirt and listened as around the corner patrons exited the theatre, his trained ear attuned to any review, any mention of the lead actor -_

_“Didn’t think they let women work in the theatre?”_

_Aziraphale whipped around, startled. A stranger, tall and lean, red-haired, and with piercing yellow eyes that Aziraphale could make out even in the dim light of evening, appraised him from outside the public house across the alley. He was dressed in a simple black doublet and leather jerkin, with matching black hose and laced boots. Gentry, if that even, and certainly not noble, Aziraphale surmised. And not noticeably drunk, either, unlike most of his companions in the pub._

_“They don’t.”_

_“Then what business could a lady have here?”_

_Aziraphale smiled at his ignorance. Shakespeare’s works were popular with all sorts, but many of the uneducated and unrefined were still unfamiliar with the theatre, and the Puritans avoided it altogether. “I’m the lead,” he gestured to The Globe behind him. “Someone needs to play the heroine.”_

_The stranger walked across the alley, surveying him with a frown. “So you dress up like a quim every evening?” Aziraphale winced at the term. “No real man would do that.”_

It was absurd that Crowley would say such things, Aziraphale knew. He’d seen Crowley in women’s attire more times than he could remember at this point in their shared history. For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale had spent most of the 1400s decidedly _not_ thinking about how he’d like to strip off those immodestly cut Italian gowns Crowley insisted on wearing for the better part of the century.

But it felt so much safer when _he_ wasn’t really Crowley, when _he_ resembled Crowley in appearance alone. It was safer when there was enough distance between reality and fantasy that Aziraphale didn’t feel like he was on the precipice of Falling with every passing daydream.

_“I dress up like a paid actor who has a considerably heavier purse than you, judging by the sorry state of that doublet.”_

_The stranger grinned. “Pussy has teeth.”_

_Aziraphale turned to round the corner back to the side entrance of the theatre. He’d had enough. Occasionally fans got pushy or a little too familiar, but usually then he was changed, himself again, and it was easy enough to handle, simple to dismiss. Now, dressed in layers and layers of restrictive clothing and padding, his corset laced so tightly that he had to remind himself to breathe, he felt less confident. Vulnerable to this man with the predatory eyes._

_The stranger grabbed his hand before he could wrench away, tearing the ornate lace ruff off his wrist. Aziraphale managed to strike him in the face with his free hand before he was pushed against the exterior timber beams of The Globe._

_“Unhand me.”_

_“Or what?”_

_“I’ll - ”_

_“Scream? Too many people, too much noise.” He was right. Several harlots were yelling at a group of men, revellers cheered at a nearby bear baiting, two men drunkenly wrestled on the ground to a crowd of equally drunk onlookers, and around the corner several hundred people exited the theatre, heels clacking on the cobblestone. No one would hear him, stage voice or not._

_“I don’t have my purse on me now. I’m still in costume.”_

_“I’m not interested in your money.”_

_“Then prithee, let me be.”_

_The stranger’s slitted eyes narrowed. “I want to know what sort of a man would play as a woman.”_

_“One who enjoys paying his rent.”_

_“There are other ways to get paid without resorting to emasculation.” He looked Aziraphale up and down, fondling clothing so expensive that such a man would never normally have the opportunity to touch it; he couldn’t even approach a noblewomen of such distinction, let alone sample her wares._

_Aziraphale felt the press of the stranger’s body, more powerful than his frame suggested, and suddenly he was yanked off of the wall of the theatre and forced down the alley, his heels digging into the stone beneath him, frantic for a hold, as the stranger dragged him further into the poorly lit lane._

_“I’m not accompanying you anywhere.” Aziraphale planted his feet and tried to scream for help, but his mouth was gagged with the stranger’s hand. He bit down and flailed, but it was too late. They’d reached a door several buildings down, and the man hauled him inside, down a dim hallway lined with doors, and into a small bed chamber. It was unadorned, only housing a bed and a lamp - meant for a single purpose. Aziraphale was thrown to the floor, his fine white gown cascading around him. The door latched._

Aziraphale could feel the desperation, the panic of the situation, and his pulse raced. He could almost see the line of _Crowley’s_ mouth tilt to an amused smile as he watched the damsel scoot to the edge of the room, press himself up against a corner, huddled in his finery, as if placing a few feet between them would do any good. He’d mapped Crowley’s face in their moments together, memorized every twitch, every fleeting expression; he could imagine him so clearly. He reached under his breeches and rubbed his thigh in anticipation.

_“If you’re going to play as a woman, I’ll treat you as such. No gentlewoman would be out alone at such an hour. You must be courting danger.”_

_“You know perfectly well - ”_

_“I know that you’re rouged up like a common whore, dressed far above your station, and were standing on a street lousy with brothels. Actor or not, it’s clear what you want.”_

_“I’m no - ”_

_“Poor lamb, so confused, as women often are. I’ve brought you to a whorehouse where you belong. I’ll treat you well here, dove.”_

A fleshmonger then. When was the last time he’d fantasized about Crowley as his pimp? Ah, the old stalwart - a Frankish Crusader _Crowley_ breaking him in before giving him to his troops, filth spilling from his devilish lips as he explained how he’d be passed around the following night, used by the men as they saw fit, but for tonight Aziraphale was only _his -_ that had gotten him through the miserable 1090s. Might need to revisit it sometime.

_He pulled a kicking Aziraphale up from the floor and tossed him on the bed, face first. Aziraphale scrambled clumsily to his knees, impeded by the layers of his dress, and tried to get off the bed, but he was held there, strong hands pinning him down, a long body overtop his._

_“Good little cunts don’t fight.”_

I wouldn’t fight, Aziraphale thought madly, his grip on his thigh tightening. His arousal, which had been a dull thrum before, now heightened to something unmistakable, and his cock tented his breeches. He squirmed to get more comfortable, freeing himself, hand inching towards his sack.

_“I’m not a - ” Aziraphale stumbled over the word. “I’m not yours to touch.”_

I’ve always been yours.

_“When I have you, you’ll scream Crowley for me. Won’t you, love?” Crowley held both of Aziraphale’s hands together on the bed with only one of his own, and begin unhooking his outer bodice with the other, unfastening the hook and eyes with surprising care. “Wouldn’t want your precious gown ruined more than it already is.” He shrugged the bodice and its puffed silk sleeves off, lingering at the torn ruff. His hand slinked around to the front of his white gown, a damn heavy thing attached to the kirtle by a series of additional hooks and eyes, and he removed it with practiced ease. “What a pretty whore in blue and white,” he whispered, fondling the soft damask of the kirtle. “Pretending to be a virtuous angel in these noble colours when really you’re nothing but a cheap harlot.”_

_Aziraphale bucked away, trying to throw Crowley off as his hand slid to the laced inner bodice of the kirtle. “When I get free - ”_

_“You’re under the impression I’m letting you leave? Perhaps I’ll keep you here and rent you out, if your quim is worth a price.”_

Aziraphale bit back a moan and cupped his sack, squeezing.

_“I need to unlace you. Are you going to fight or will you behave?”_

_He was shaking. This man, Crowley, had every advantage. He couldn’t overpower him. But still he managed, “I’ll knock your teeth out.”_

_Crowley laughed. “That’s not very ladylike.” He pulled Aziraphale’s collar ruff off his neck and flipped him about the bed, so that the back of Aziraphale’s head hit the scratch-worn bedpost. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I have to; there’s no sport in roughing women.” Crowley pinned Aziraphale’s hands to the bedpost behind him, wrapping the pleated fabric of the ruff around them several times and securing them with a knot that Aziraphale couldn’t struggle free from, even as he lurched forward desperately. “I’ll untie you when you know your station.”_

He leaned back in his bed and felt the sturdy bedpost there, imagined Crowley bent over him, restraining him so that there’d be no escape from whatever he wished to do. Powerless. Aziraphale’s fingers fluttered against his cock, stroking it as lightly as he could manage with such visions in his head. He was on edge, already panting at the mere idea of Crowley looming over him, stripping off layer after layer of fabric.

_Crowley unlaced the silk ribbon that secured his inner bodice, elegant fingers unweaving the fabric like an artist painting delicate brushstrokes, his eyes scarcely needing to follow his work, looking at Aziraphale’s face instead with a hungry gleam. Unfastened, he pushed the bodice off his shoulders and pulled the entire garment, skirt and all, down so that Aziraphale was left only in his underclothes. “Plenty of practice,” he hissed, answering a question that Aziraphale had not dared ask._

_His hooped farthingale and silk petticoat were pulled off without fuss, along with his heels, leaving him in only his stockings and linen chemise, cinched in by a front-laced, boned corset that was threaded painfully tight to accentuate his figure for the stage. Aziraphale shuddered as Crowley’s hands traced the unnatural curve of his frame, caressing the contours of his bust to his bound waist and then squeezing the dramatic flair of his thick hips and thighs that spilled out from the confines of the corset. “What a lovely harlot,” Crowley breathed, leaning into him to paw his bust; his corset-shaped cleavage bounced over his thin chemise, and Aziraphale tried to pull away from the touch, but his restraints prevented him from moving very far._

_“I’ll do more than knock your teeth out.” His voice had lost its composure, trembling and small, and Crowley only laughed._

_Crowley’s hands slid lower, underneath the hem of his chemise, flitting up past his stockings to his naked thighs. The touch was so intimate, so horrifyingly affectionate, and Aziraphale whimpered involuntarily as Crowley’s long fingers parted his thighs, grazing his exposed cock and balls as he explored his depths._

Still stroking himself, Aziraphale followed Crowley’s route with his other hand, rubbing between his thighs, diving lower behind his sack and into his cleft. Crowley’s fingers were more delicate than his own, long and dexterous and capable of _what_ exactly, Aziraphale wished to know outside of such a fantasy.

_“Do you wish it was a cunt? Do you rub yourself at night and press your fingers in?” Crowley’s index finger brushed his hole, penetrating just an inch while he circled the puckered flesh, causing Aziraphale to cry out.“Do you wish some gentleman would take you in your sopping pussy. Do you wish you could just drip for him, soak your folds, ruin your expensive petticoat?”_

Aziraphale’s hand sped up, and he considered briefly changing his effort. It had been a while since he’d taken on a female form - a Cistercian nun in twelfth century France, if he was remembering correctly - and the thoughts he’d had then about Crowley taking him in the cloisters had driven him insatiable. But no, he was enjoying this one tonight, shamefully aching over the villainous words spilling from Crowley’s tongue.

_“You’re false, dressing like this, making men desire you like this. Shaped like a woman but without a soft quim to sink into. What was that pretty piece of poetry? I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.”_

_Aziraphale immediately recognized the words, and he tugged hopelessly against his restraints. “How?” His voice was weak, breathless. “You’ve seen the play? I didn’t think - ”_

_“Of course I have.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s chemise up, revealing his sex completely, while his lithe hands continued to rub between his parted thighs. “ And what a pretty little thing you are on the stage, dressed like a proper lady, but licking your rouged lips like a flirt; you’re debauched, nothing better than a prostitute. It’s indecent, and obvious what you want, what you need from the moment you get on stage. Every time you speak you’re practically begging for a cock to silence you.”_

_“You’re wrong - ”_

_Crowley wouldn’t let him finish. “You’re nothing more than a slut without a pussy to satisfy the men you lead on.” He pressed his finger further into Aziraphale’s hole and sheathed it in one motion, and Aziraphale wailed, fighting wildly against the restraints, trying to throw Crowley off of him. But Crowley held him firmly down on the mattress._

Hand unsteady, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and they slickened instantly, dripping a sweet smelling oil. He slipped one inside himself effortlessly, stretching himself out with practiced hands that had done this many times before, had mimicked Crowley’s fictive actions for centuries. He cock pulsed with every thrust, and his hips jerked up, body straining for that perfect angle that made him see the stars Crowley so loved, made him finally find the beauty in those constellations, but he held back, thrusting shallowly. Make it last, he thought.

_“I’m not giving this to you.”_

_“You’re mine to take.”_

_Crowley kept his thighs spread with one hand, massaging the fat that overflowed from his corset at his hips, while pushing another finger roughly inside him, scissoring them so that Aziraphale sobbed in discomfort -_ Oh Heaven, yes, just like that - _and he fought weakly before sagging against the restraints, chest heaving as he struggled to get enough air, his lungs pinched from the crush of his corset._

_“You’re really crying like a maiden? A boy who tarts himself up like a girl every night - this isn’t your first time getting fucked.”_

_He thought about Richard’s flirtatious smiles, shared jugs of ale at the public house, secrets whispered in the dark of The Globe’s stage past midnight, a brush of a hand against a cheek, and nothing more._

_“You’re repulsive,” he gasped, trying to breathe, shifting his torso in an attempt to loosen the corset’s compression. Spots dotted his sight._

_Crowley brushed the rouge off his lip, smearing it down his chin, and then ruffled his wig, which was pinned in an intricate bun, so that strands of honey-blonde hair fell about his face, all the while thrusting his fingers in with increasing aggression. “A fallen woman,” he sneered, “I’ll show you your place.”_

_His arms were numb and the world was growing dim around him, and Aziraphale could barely manage to cry as a third finger stabbed inside him, stretching him out past what he thought was possible. Crowley’s fingers seemed to fill him completely, rubbing his walls with an uncomfortable burn, and yet they worked him open with each thrust._

Aziraphale pushed a third finger inside, increasing his tempo, trying to fuck himself like _Crowley_ would, mercilessly rutting his fingers in and out without regard for Aziraphale’s comfort, focused solely on opening him enough so he could enter, so he could _use_ him for his own pleasure. He tried to ignore the thoughts that came with every fantasy, the speculation that Crowley, had he actually been here in Aziraphale’s overstuffed bed, would whisper things like “does this feel good?” and “is that a happy noise?” and “let me get some more oil” and “are you ready for me, angel?”; his fingers would flutter and caress and pet, and Aziraphale ignored the clawing idea that Crowley would be preoccupied with loosening him up gradually, insistent that they take their time least he hurt him inadvertently, maybe open him up with his long tongue…

He moaned and rubbed the sensitive nub inside him that made his whole body shake, and struck the notion from his head. It was easier like this, with _Crowley withdrawing his fingers and unlacing the bottom rows of the corset, his grace from before gone as he snapped the blue silk ribbon in his rush. Aziraphale gasped appreciatively for air, inhaling desperately as the light came back to the room and the spots before his eyes disappeared._

 _“Your cunt nice and ready for me?” Aziraphale kicked, but Crowley held him firmly by his stockinged leg, lifting his ass off the mattress before pulling himself out of his hose and shoving in with a brutal thrust. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside; he couldn’t possibly accommodate him, and Crowley gave him no time to adjust, pulling himself halfway out before ramming back inside. “Tight little whore,” he groaned. “Kept that pussy snug for me.”_ Only for you, Crowley. Not Burbage or any of the other men who’d ever propositioned him; he was Crowley’s, even if it remained consummated only in his mind.

 _“Fuck you,” Aziraphale swore, and then he sobbed as Crowley shifted inside him and grazed_ something _that made his body clench. His soft cock twitched in interest, and Crowley smirked, thrusting against it again._

Please, yes, Crowley, right there, right there, just a little more, fuck. Aziraphale grinded his slick fingers against that nub, barely thrusting in, just rubbing until he was nothing but a bundle of overwrought nerves, vibrating against his pillows. His other hand fisted his cock, hips rocking between the two competing sensations. Almost there, almost there.

_Crowley fucked him, pulling out almost entirely before pushing in again with enough force to knock Aziraphale back, had he not already been pinned against the headboard. His hands groped Aziraphale’s bosom, fondling the pushed-together cleavage created by the corset, his pace brutal as he continued, and Aziraphale could only cry out wordlessly, numb fingers clinging to his knotted ruff as he was impaled over and over again._

_He must be ripped, Aziraphale thought, split down the middle, ravaged, torn asunder, stretched open and wanting. He burned and ached, filled to bursting, and every now and again there was a hot flash of unexpected pleasure as that gland was struck somewhere deep inside him; he felt it in the back of his balls, radiating up his suddenly hard, leaking cock. Crowley growled and pistoned his hips against that place, and Aziraphale moaned, cock throbbing in a desperate, shameful need as his body was racked with overwhelming pleasure. He couldn’t possibly, no, no, not like this, not so soon, not with this man, this fiend, this demon -_

The pinnacle crested over him, so intense it hurt, his body seizing in a rapturous mix of pleasure-pain. He stiffened and shouted for Crowley as his hips spasmed, cock spurting his hot seed against his stomach and chest for what seemed like an eternity, even for an angel.

Legs shaking, he miracled himself clean, before sinking back into his bed. The guilt would hit soon, it always did, but for now, he was sated, eyes closed as he lazily pictured what would follow.

_Crowley finished, pulled out. Aziraphale was covered in both his own cum and Crowley’s; the former staining his corset, thick gobs of it streaking the half-threaded ribbon, and the later dripping out between his legs, hole gaping as Crowley’s cum trickled out._

He felt a twinge. Maybe just a bit more. It was such a lovely visual - _Crowley untying his wrists, rubbing circulation back into his arms as he sprawled him face-down across the pillows, his hole loose and open and raw, wet with cum. He was too despoiled and ruined to fight back as Crowley spread him open, slipped his ever-hard cock inside him again with an obscene squelch, pushing more cum out of him in thick rivulets. He’d lean over him, fucking him deeply with every roll of his hips, and he’d whisper, “Your cunt’s nice and wet for me now. You’re soaked for me, dripping you need it so bad. I’ll take care of you.” He’d rub Aziraphale’s soft, over-sensitive cock, thumbing the slit. “What a lovely little clit you have. I’ll make it good for you,” and Aziraphale could only mewl, overstimulated and debauched._

Yes yes yes. Aziraphale slipped his hand around his hardening cock, and then _jumped_ -

A knock at the door downstairs. Damn. It was late, surely they’d just go away, whoever it was. He hadn’t kept servants in centuries, much easier that way all things considered, although he admitted he wouldn’t mind one or two _now_.

Another knock, and then a call from a voice he’d recognize anywhere. “Angel, you there?” Crowley. A sudden wave of panic hit him. Had he somehow _summoned_ him? No, no that was quite impossible. He willed away the flush from his face, his arousal fled at the notion of being discovered like this, and he grabbed his night coat and flew down the stairs to the door.

Crowley leaned casually against a black timber beam outside his door. “I didn’t know you slept,” he drawled, amused.

“You do it enough. Thought I’d give it a go.” He was still panting, but doing his best to seem offhand.

“You’re breathless? Everything all right?”

“Just woke me up suddenly, that’s all.”

“I won’t keep you. Look, I was thinking about Edinburgh.” Crowley leaned in. “Maybe we should go together instead. The horses will be a pain, but it’s a long trip. We could keep each other company. You'd be terribly lonely without me.” A fanged smile.

“Oh no, a deal’s a deal.” Aziraphale swallowed thickly.

“I’m sure there’s some restaurant you’ll want to try up there. We could - ”

“No use in us both being inconvenienced. I’ll take Edinburgh, you have the next one. Kind thought, though.”

Crowley’s face fell. Sometimes it was hard to tell what went on behind the spectacles, but not now. "Don't call me kind." He stared at Aziraphale, eyes hard behind his glasses. "Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“Yes, quite.”

“See you,” Crowley paused, “whenever I see you next.”

“Go safely.” Aziraphale closed the door and sunk against it, eyes shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org).  
> Talk to me on [Tumblr](https://spunknbite.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spunknbite).


	3. Chapter 3

_South Downs, Present Day_

Aziraphale’s curled up in the garden reading a cheap paperback from the little bookshop in town. Crowley leans against the garden door, and just looks at him for a bit, snug on a bench lost in some guilty-pleasure thriller that the clerk had talked him into against his better judgement, peaceful and calm and safe and deserving of everything good in this world, and Crowley thinks that it would be awfully nice to just slither up on his warm lap and nap in the sun.

And so he does, because he can do that now that the world didn’t end and they can just be _them_ together, and Aziraphale pets his scales idly, book in hand, eyes skimming over the words with the speed of someone who has spent several millennia doing this exact thing, lost in story after story, and they sit there comfortably for the better part of the afternoon until Aziraphale says, “It looks like rain,” and then they retreat inside only when it comes down so hard that his wings no longer keep them both dry. Crowley returns to his legs to make cocoa, adding extra marshmallows to Aziraphale’s mug, and Aziraphale miracles a fire, and they sit by the window as the storm rolls in, Aziraphale still reading, resting against Crowley’s chest, Crowley carding his fingers through white-blonde hair.

*

*

*

The world hadn’t ended, but the bookshop had burned and Aziraphale was a wreck; a second wind of panic hit him sometime after arriving at Crowley’s flat, and he paced back and forth in Crowley’s bare kitchen, three in the morning going on four, insistent that it was only a matter of time before Heaven and Hell came for them. Crowley was perched on the back of his couch, deep into his third bottle, watching Aziraphale wear a hole in the floor, and then Aziraphale stopped talking - Crowley wasn’t sure what about anymore; there’s only so many ways an angel can politely express the sentiment ‘we’re fucked’ without coarse language before a demon tunes him out - and he looked at Crowley with such a lost expression that the demon would have done anything in the world to comfort him, and then suddenly Crowley wasn’t sitting on the couch anymore because Aziraphale was on top of him, pushing him back to the cushions, needy and wet-mouthed and _finally_.

And they’d managed to survive the following day somehow, well not somehow because it was Aziraphale who’d figured it all out while nestled in a heap of newly-summoned tartan pillows in Crowley’s usually sparse bed: the prophecy, the switch, all of it. Then the bookshop wasn’t burned anymore, and the Bentley was back, and later Crowley waited on that park bench for too many long minutes before he saw himself step across the grass, careful and swagger-less and _Aziraphale_ , and he could breathe again because his angel had managed to survive Hell, and at once they had a future that he’d never before allowed himself to seriously contemplate. 

Aziraphale was on top of him in the backroom of the bookshop, and then against the dusty shelves that held the philosophy first editions and then upstairs in the rarely used flat that mainly housed more books, and then in the back of the newly unburned Bentley because how better to christen it than with an actual honest-to-God angel, and then and then and then, and then eventually in the cottage. Everywhere in the cottage.

*

*

*

Crowley minces garlic while Aziraphale chops basil beside him. The basil’s from the garden, which Aziraphale has done his best to destroy with praise, but Crowley’s kept the plants in line so far with a combination of coffee grounds, egg shells, and vitriol. 

Onion sizzles in a pot, then the garlic. Then tomatoes and more tomatoes. Then the basil, chopped with far more precision than the garlic was minced, and some oregano. Salt and pepper, and red pepper flakes. He’ll throw in too many olives at the end, Crowley knows, and maybe artichoke hearts, and most certainly a chunk of Parmesan straight into the sauce because Aziraphale can’t help himself. Crowley kisses him as he walks past, angelic fingers covered in flour from kneading the pasta dough leave white dust on his black jeans, and Aziraphale leans into him with the sort of casual grace that Crowley can’t wrap his mind around. 

They casually kiss in the kitchen. Crowley casually takes his hand when they walk to the cliffs. Aziraphale casually brushes stray hairs out of Crowley’s eyes. No big deal. Nothing remarkable here. Except it’s _everything_ and the idea that this is just _what they do now_ is impossible after six millennia of wanting.

Aziraphale fiddles with the sauce and Crowley walks out into the sitting room because the _casualness_ of it all is sometimes too much; the ease of these little, everyday routines and motions is still staggering and catches his breath unexpectedly, makes him a bit dizzy, makes him a bit...precious, which is something he avoids when he can help it. He flops into a chair, legs sprawled over the armrest, and turns on the television because whatever is on is less overwhelming than the tingle of his lips after Aziraphale kisses him in _their_ kitchen, _their_ home, while making _them_ dinner. Just like any other Tuesday. Just like it’s normal and mundane, and not this earth-shattering, amazing thing.

He snaps at the television to flip through the channels, unfocused, listening to Aziraphale’s footsteps in the kitchen; sock-clad feet pad softly between the fridge and the stove and back again. On the television: a cricket game, a news programme, a cooking show, some reality television programme - one of his better diabolical contributions, he thought - this one with men wearing exaggerated drag makeup stalking a catwalk in stilettoed boots and corsets. 

“Dinner’s ready. I’m quite afraid I overdid it with the olives.” Aziraphale appears from the kitchen, dusting his hands on a tweed apron. 

“Think I could tempt you into one of those?” Crowley smirks, swinging himself off the couch and gesturing at the drag queens striking vogue-esque poses in their lingerie.

Aziraphale sputters and turns off the television, and Crowley only smiles more, and follows him into the kitchen.

*

*

*

Aziraphale wants and wants and wants, and Crowley gives and gives and gives, and that’s how it’s been for millennia, and Crowley _likes_ it that way.

It’s not that his angel is selfish - quite the opposite - it’s just that he’s a bit of a hedonist. Aziraphale would disagree with the use of that word, but Crowley knows it’s essentially true; he also knows not to call Aziraphale on it. Once, the late seventeenth century perhaps, he’d made the mistake of teasingly calling him a libertine, and Aziraphale hadn’t returned his letters for the better part of a decade. 

He likes cozy armchairs and leather-bound books and manicures. He likes cuisine that tastes like it was made with an absurd amount of time and effort. He likes lattes with the little leaves drawn into the froth. He likes boozy picnics by the cliffs. He likes it when Crowley brings home chocolates from the patisserie in town. He likes it when Crowley tells him a good story, something he hasn’t heard before, which is difficult since he’s been around so long he’s heard most of them. He likes it when Crowley lays him down on their bed and asks “what do you want, angel?”

He wants it _all_. And Crowley wants very little other than seeing him happy.

A year ago, Aziraphale wanted a change from London, and so Crowley dropped by the bookshop the following day with keys to a newly purchased cottage and a proposal for a vacation. The vacation had no end yet in sight. 

*

*

*

The rain has started up again when Crowley stretches out over him in their bed and asks his favourite question, “what do you want, angel?” Aziraphale blushes, which means this is going to be good, Crowley’s sure, grinning, kissing under his chin. The rain drums on the window that hangs over their bed, and Crowley watches Aziraphale watching individual droplets spill down the glass, propelled by the ever-flow of the storm. Crowley moves to his neck, pressing kisses into skin that still smells like flour. “Tell me,” he almost sings, getting precious again, and Aziraphale swallows.

“It’s terrible.”

“Can’t be. You always have great ideas.” 

“No, my dear, I regret even mentioning it.”

“Well now you have to tell me.” Crowley’s mouth lingers on his collarbone, the edges wonderfully round and soft beneath his lips, so different than the hard angles of his own body. 

“It’s foolish. I don’t - I don’t even think about it much now, really. I just used to think about it sometimes and well...” He’s flustered, lip bitten, looking away at the rain with a fixation that Crowley knows is intentional.

He stops teasing. “Angel,” he says, coming back up to kiss his lips, “Whatever it is, I want to know.” Aziraphale kisses him back, mouth a little too open, hands a little too greedy as they thread through Crowley’s hair.

“I’m afraid you’ll look at me differently.” Aziraphale won’t meet his eyes.

Crowley kisses his bottom lip. “Never.” And Aziraphale’s clinging to him, desperate in a way he hasn’t been since the beginning, after the world didn’t end, when they still seemed tenuous, when they were both figuring out what _they_ meant, uncertain that this would work after centuries and centuries of, well, _not this_ , each waiting for the other to leave or end it or get pulled back by their respective employers, and it would all be over and the other would be left alone. Maybe Crowley was projecting. 

Aziraphale still won’t meet his eyes.

“Can’t shock a demon.” He says with a fanged grin and a feigned levity, and Aziraphale looks nothing shy of distraught as he finally locks eyes with Crowley and whispers millennia-held stories.

*

*

*

Crowley had told himself stories about Aziraphale, too; he’d thought about him all the damn time, if he was honest. 

He’d longed to set Aziraphale upon the altar at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi and worship him, to kneel before him, unworthy, and pay tribute: kiss up his legs, past his knees, bury his face in his divine thighs and take him in his mouth. He could almost hear the hitch of Aziraphale’s breath, feel the press of his thighs against his face as he swallowed. _Let me venerate you_.

In Rome, he’d wanted to lay Aziraphale out amidst the scaffolding beneath the unfinished ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, show him the beauty of the completed figures, the matte brushstrokes of the ones still being painted. He’d point to one of the ignudi, a voluptuous blonde man reclined on a stone bench, so much more beautiful than the rest of God’s creation, and tell him of the drinks he’d had one night with a local artist he’d called Mikey, and the inspiration he’d put into his head. He’d show Aziraphale exactly how he saw him, painted above, and then ease into him, with no rush or worry, a celestial canopy above them. 

The night of _Hamlet_ \- after Crowley had spent the better part of the evening sweet-talking the dull but influential intellectual elites of the city into visiting The Globe the following night for what he assured them would be a seminal work of creative genius, after he’d called in several favours to pack the house with chatty upstarts who’d be sure to tell their fellow chatty upstart friends about the knockout performance they’d just witnessed, after he’d thrown around flash phrases like _an astute study of existentialist philosophy_ , and _formative for not only the genre but the theatre overall,_ and _possessing a rhetorical wit and poetry unmatched by its contemporaries,_ phrases he was sure would have impressed Aziraphale at least a little, after all of that - he sat down in his flat and thought about how he hoped Aziraphale would be happy with the effort, how he really just wanted him happy all the bloody time, and how, as much as he really didn’t want to go to Edinburgh, the trip would be worth it for a little more time with him.

So he’d done what seemed the sane thing at the time, showed up at Aziraphale’s doorstep in the middle of the night - had boomboxes been invented then, he surely would have brought one - and asked if he wanted company in Edinburgh. Walking home afterwards, stung with the rejection he should have expected, he couldn’t forget how _breathless_ Aziraphale had been. Borderline panting. Winded. And the angel never slept, so the excuse that he’d been suddenly awoken was a load of bollocks if he’d ever heard any. It was clear what he’d been up to, and Crowley spent several centuries worth of evenings fisting his cock to the image of Aziraphale touching himself, wondering what he’d imagine, whose name was on his lips.

Mostly though, he spent a great deal of time thinking about Eden, about its lush moss cover over the forest floor, and how he’d like to lay Aziraphale down on it, heavenly wings spread out under him like pillows. He’d pull off his white robe and pleasure him, however he wanted, in any way he wanted, in this holy place where he belonged.

*

*

* 

Whatever he was expecting Aziraphale to say, it wasn’t _that_. 

*

*

*

“You’re absolutely sure? Because I understand if you’ve changed your mind, my dear. It’s an exceptionally big thing to ask of you, and I hadn’t fathomed you’d actually - ” A finger to his lips, a hissed shush. “No, Crowley, really I must insist. Because if you’re uncomfortable - ” 

“No hand wringing. I told you, angel, whatever you want, you get.” 

Aziraphale smiles just a little; he likes being spoiled. “Yes, but what about you?”

Too confident a smirk. “I’m a demon, aren’t I? Put on my demon face, tell a little story, and it’s _tickety-boo_.” He clicks his tongue with every syllable.

“But - ”

“You still want this, yeah?”

Aziraphale’s voice quiets, and he looks away. “I wouldn't have told you otherwise.” 

“Well then I want it too.” Crowley presses a kiss to his palm and Aziraphale melts. “I’ve had enough talking. We’ve been going over it for too long.” Aziraphale _wants_ and _wants_ \- he’s not a patient angel. “I don’t like keeping you waiting.”

The softest kiss. “Just remember the word if you want to stop.”

“Same goes for you, angel.”

*

*

*

“I think it was a way of coping,” Aziraphale had said, bundled up in Crowley’s arms that first rainy night, exposed, hand clutching Crowley’s as if he was scared that he’d up and leave the bed, leave his life. “I couldn’t think about _you_ because, well...you know why.” He did, of course; he’d been an angel once, even if it was all a bit blurry - a puritanical lot couldn’t let wicked demons soil their virtue, after all. “But if I didn’t have a say in it…” _if I raped you, you mean._ “And, I think it very well took on a bit of a life of its own after that.”

Crowley brushed his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, wishing he had his glasses, had anything to hide behind so that Aziraphale wouldn’t see the hurt. He closed his eyes and kissed his angel’s temple and reminded himself what he’d been repeating for millennia:

Heaven and Hell were propagandists, extremists; black and white, good and evil, nothing between. Aziraphale had been created knowing that angels were beings of love and demons were sadistic beasts, and seeing them both as anything but these poles went against his very nature, and risked Falling to boot, and that’s why Crowley had mostly dismissed every holier-than-thou, angelic superiority tosh that had been thrown at him over the millennia because it wasn’t his angel’s fault. Not totally, anyway. What he couldn’t immediately shake off, he slept or drank off, and once he woke up and/or sobered up, everything was forgiven. It was very easy to forgive Aziraphale.

They’d moved past all of that now. _Our side_.

Aziraphale was shaking a bit. “You’re disgusted.” He wrenched away. “I’ve made a mess of everything, I knew this was a terrible idea.”

“Come back.” Crowley drawled, easy, light-hearted, decidedly _not_ upset. Aziraphale came back without fuss; he’d moved away only to be pulled back into Crowley’s arms, he knew. “I’m not disgusted. I’m just thinking.” He kissed him again. “Nothing about you could ever disgust me.” That was true, at least.

“We never need to do anything. I don’t expect you to - ”

“But you want to.” 

Aziraphale refused to nod, eyes downcast.

“Tell me what you want, exactly.”

Too many fantasies, too many scenarios and situations, too many that were so obviously linked to their lives together that Crowley later considered memory after memory and wondered how it had been twisted up in Aziraphale’s imagination, what _he’d_ done to him after they parted. The morning they’d watched as the first of the buttresses had been added to Notre-Dame. The afternoon spent at the Daily Bioscope watching newsreels, and Aziraphale pointedly buying several papers on their walk back to the bookshop to show his distaste. The evening they strolled down Old Compton Street after a dinner out, rainbow flags hanging from every storefront and telephone pole, bombastic music blaring as half-dressed people danced in the street, and Crowley was sorely tempted to take Aziraphale’s hand. What had Aziraphale thought about after those nights?

“What do you think about now?”

“I d-don’t anymore, not really, not that much.”

Crowley smiled, despite not being in much of a smiling mood. “Well you must sometimes, angel, or else you wouldn’t have brought this up.” And he caressed his cheek because _how could he not_ when Aziraphale was looking at him so desperately. 

*

*

*

In the stories Crowley told himself at night, Aziraphale was always quite happy to participate. He was always some shade of pleased, enthusiastic, attracted, delightfully surprised. 

In the stories Aziraphale told himself at night, Aziraphale was never happy to participate. He was always the victim, the stolen, the injured, the _taken._

Crowley had some difficulty reconciling the difference.

*

*

*

“Angel,” he hisses not altogether unkindly, “don’t put up a fight. It’ll be much easier on you. You know I don’t want to hurt you.”

Aziraphale’s not fighting, not really. Crowley has him pinned to the bed beneath him, hands encircling his wrists tightly, as requested, and he straddles his thighs, keeping his legs from moving. Aziraphale gives a little show of a struggle, squirms against Crowley’s hands, but he stays firmly underneath him. Crowley knows Aziraphale could overpower him if he felt the need, but he certainly isn’t motivated to do so now. _He’s a terrible actor_ , Crowley thinks fondly. Angels aren’t good liars, and this one is definitely enjoying himself, his breath short, eyes dilated, his hips shift not to fight Crowley off but to find a better angle for his tented trousers.

Aziraphale wants narration, he wants Crowley to weave one of the tales he’s been telling himself for millennia, and Crowley thinks he can manage this, even if his own stories are quite the opposite. He might be uncertain about this game Aziraphale devised, uncomfortable with his role in it, but he’s confident he can give Aziraphale a thrill. He’s a Goddamn artist with his words, a tempter, a seducer; a little fiction, some persuasion, whispered words that a mark wants to hear but has been reticent to tell himself, that’s the heart of his vocation. Former vocation, he supposes. Demons might be the same stock as angels, but they have no trouble lying, and he’s told many of every shade. 

“I told you not to fight. You don’t want to make me angry, do you?” A little meaner, just a bit. Get him warmed up.

“Let me go.” Another struggle with a little more oomph this time. Aziraphale’s voice is tentative, unsure about his part in their play, and his eyes meet Crowley’s, questioning - _is this right?_ Crowley wishes he could remind him that regardless of who’s holding who down, Aziraphale’s the one in charge here - he can say whatever the Hell he feels like; this is all for him, after all.

Crowley pushes him back against the headboard, puts his full weight down on him. “What did I just say?”

“Please, you don’t need to do this, Crowley.” Hearing his name stings.

“No, but I want to.” And Aziraphale moans, which almost makes up for the hurt. _Terrible actor, can’t keep a straight face to save his life._ “What did you think would happen, _fraternizing_ with me? You want this - you wouldn’t have been so _desperate_ for me otherwise.”

“No, I’d never - ”

“Holy little angel consorting with a demon. You’re practically begging for it.”

He’s most definitely begging for it; Aziraphale’s hips buck just a little, but he says, “I thought we were friends.”

“We both know you want more,” Crowley growls in his ear. “I’m going to use you however I want.” And Aziraphale cries out, hips jerking again, seeking contact Crowley hasn’t permitted yet.

 _Fuck, he’s perfect like this_ , and Crowley wonders whether he can undo him with words alone. 

He can enjoy this, he realizes, looking at the lust in Aziraphale’s eyes. His apprehension at this entire scene - the sinking pit in his stomach at the notion that Aziraphale had fantasized about little else other than rape, no _...ravishment_ , he corrects himself, because that word doesn’t leave ashes on his tongue - that discomfort dissolves when he sees how _gone_ Aziraphale already is. They’ve barely begun and he’s already flushed a fever red, and he’s panting, mouth open with a thin trail of saliva dripping from his lip; he’s a _vision_ of debauchery, and Crowley wants nothing more than to wreck him some more.

“Perhaps I’ll bend you over this bed right now. Have you thought about that, angel? Have you rubbed that holy cock of yours to thoughts of me fucking you?” 

“No, no, I wouldn’t.” Aziraphale kicks again, hard enough to throw Crowley off a bit, but he keeps him restrained.

“This could have been easier for you, but if you‘re going to behave that way.” Crowley releases Aziraphale’s wrists and snaps his fingers with a smirk. 

Aziraphale’s jacket and waistcoat vanish, and his arms are suddenly pinned together above his head, bound not by any physical restraint but by demonic magic that Crowley’s knows will inflame someone so celestial - not enough to cause any lasting harm, but enough that Aziraphale will feel it and be reminded just _who_ restrained him there. His angel tries to kick Crowley off again, but his lower legs stay motionless, secured to the bed by the same miracle.

Crowley leans over him and says, “All mine,” in his ear while caressing his bound hands, stretching his fingers out to make sure Aziraphale has enough range of motion to snap should he need to. He doesn’t need to snap, of course; Aziraphale could think himself out of this setup without so much as a blink, but snapping is habit enough and Crowley doesn’t want Aziraphale feeling too confined in this. 

“I’m not y-yours.” Aziraphale’s voice breaks.

Crowley sheds his bow tie and pops the collar button of Aziraphale’s button-down. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this? You’ve been all I thought about since Eden. Lovely angel with a come-fuck-me-mouth. Wanted to lay you down in the garden right there.” He’s not lying and Aziraphale knows it.

He works his way down the shirt, unhooking the last button and parting the fabric so he can smooth his hands down Aziraphale’s chest and abdomen. Any other night Crowley would map him with his mouth, trace his pink nipples with his tongue until Aziraphale is writhing, outline the soft folds of his stomach with butterfly fingers, kiss that fine trail of blonde fuzz past his belly button. Instead, he squeezes the soft flesh of his side with a carnal grin, and then unstraddles him so that he can better unbutton his trousers. Crowley pulls them down, revealing a bulging pair of briefs.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, trying to catch his staccato breath, and the beginning of a tear sits against his thick lashes, threatening to fall.

“Pause for a sec.” Crowley presses their foreheads together, kisses the tear at the corner of Aziraphale’s eye. “Everything all right, angel?”

“I’m - I’m just a smidge overwhelmed.” His voice is high, thin, coming apart at the seams. “I don’t think I’ll last.”

Crowley bites back a moan when he sees his tented briefs have a wet patch across the front. “Close?” 

“You’re doing a very good job of it.” Aziraphale laughs weakly, breathlessly, and Crowley smiles, kisses him more because he never wants to _not_ kiss him. 

“Anything for you.” And he means it. This isn’t his fantasy, Hell knows, but he’ll give this to Aziraphale; he’d give him anything.

“I don’t want this to end soon. Don’t let me come yet.” Crowley groans into Aziraphale’s neck, the idea travelling straight to his cock. 

Aziraphale takes several steadying breaths, trying to calm himself. “There’s no rush.” Crowley laces their fingers together, stroking his bound wrists with his thumb. “Tell me when you want to start again.” Aziraphale waits a few more moments, eyes closed, somewhere else entirely, then nods. 

Crowley sits back up and surveys him, doing his best to seem predatory, possessive, which honestly isn’t difficult because he could _swallow him whole_ at this point. He teases the waistband of Aziraphale’s briefs. “I’m going to have all of you.”

“No, please, let me have some dignity.” His voice is shot. 

“What dignity? You’re wicked. Why else would you want my company? Why else would you call me at all hours so desperate for my attention? Dinner, the theatre, picnics - what divine reason would a supposedly pure angel have to spend so much time with a demon?” He slips his fingers under the waistband and pulls Aziraphale free, and Satan in Hell, the man is a sight. Swollen almost purple, his cock is sticky against his stomach; he’s slick with precum, wet and dripping down his tightly drawn balls, and a smeared trail of it stains his stomach. Aziraphale sucks in a breath, his hands clenched together in their binding. “You _want_ this. You’ve wanted this as long as I have. You’re a tease, and if you’re going to bait me, I will bite you.” He miracles Aziraphale’s legs free long enough to pull his trousers and briefs off completely.

“No.” He can’t manage anything else. Even the cool air of the bedroom must be too much; he’s so obviously overstimulated, and Crowley just wants to take him in his mouth. It wouldn’t take much, just a few sucks and he’d unravel. Go-Sa, _whoever_ , he’s beautiful when we unravels.

Instead, Crowley’s hands part his thighs as he kneels between them, fingers edging closer to his aching sex without touching him. He’ll give Aziraphale whatever he wants, always, and make sure it lasts.

Fiendish lips graze his neck, bite down on his Adam’s apple. “Can’t call yourself an angel when you look like this, all laid out for me, like something out of a cheap porno.”

Aziraphale whimpers _no no no_ as Crowley squeezes his nipples - not too much, he’s so sensitive there and Crowley needs to keep him going for a bit longer, as long as Aziraphale wants - but he might as well have been saying _yes yes yes_ for all his enthusiasm.

He kisses his way down Aziraphale’s torso, a bite here, a hickey there, and he pointedly ignores his straining arousal, obscenely slick and dripping still more, twitching in Crowley’s direction in time with his movements. Aziraphale is clenched tight from holding himself back, and as Crowley lifts his ass off the bed to settle his face between his thick cheeks, Aziraphale draws himself further together; whether it’s part of their game or he’s so on edge, Crowley isn’t sure. “You’re so stressed, angel,” he purrs, “loosen up for me. You know I don’t want to hurt you.” He brushes up his cleft, circles the puckered flesh there, and Aziraphale can only moan.

“Is this what you think about, angel?”

He’s met with a cry. 

Crowley explores him with his tongue, licks the underside of his balls, firm and full with need, and slicks his perineum, brushing against the oh-so sensitive skin only briefly, only enough for Aziraphale to mewl and rock his hips. He slips his tongue past the tight ring of wrinkled flesh and Aziraphale pushes down against him; Crowley can hear his bound hands scrambling to find a hold on the headboard.

Aziraphale’s cinched tight around his tongue, and Crowley works him open slowly, deliberately, inhumanly long tongue caressing his pliant inner walls. He sucks gently on his hole as he bottoms out, tongue buried deep, and Aziraphale sobs, a trickle of precum splashing Crowley’s cheekbone.

Crowley curls his tongue in and out, almost hissing, searching until - “Crowley, oh God, no, no, no.” Aziraphale flails at the contact, his body tensing as Crowley finds that sensitive nub inside him and flicks it with the fork of his tongue once, and then again, more drawn out, curving around it to get all angles. Aziraphale pistons his hips away, panic in his voice, “No, no, no, I can’t.” He’s so close, and Crowley would sorely like to finish him here, to massage that lovely spot inside him until he’s shaking and spurting. Another time, definitely another time. He begrudgingly pulls out, and is met with an image out of his own id: Aziraphale’s cock straining upwards, flexing towards Crowley, a steady stream of precum dripping down his cock and onto his taut balls. Crowley’s own arousal throbs in his pants, and he’s had quite enough of waiting all of a sudden; he knows his impatient angel has too.

He leans over him and bites the shell of his ear, harder than he’d planned, and Aziraphale actually pushes into it. “I’m going to fuck you.” He dips a finger into Aziraphale, sliding in without resistance. “I’m going to make you Fall,” he hisses.

And that’s all it takes. Aziraphale sobs, gutturally, raw, and he breaks the binds on his arms so he can cover his face with a hand, his body tensing, hips raising up off the bed. Crowley holds his free hand in his as his angel comes undone, untouched, arching towards him, gasping for Crowley as he bathes his own stomach in his release. 

They’re kissing. Crowley’s not sure who initiated it but now Aziraphale is wrapped around him, all pretence of their game gone, teeth knocking as they find the right angle to fit together. Aziraphale’s practically vibrating against him, hands tugging off Crowley’s shirt. “I need you, I need you.” He’s not sure which one of them is saying that. They’re a blur of limbs, entangled, and when they’re like this, when Aziraphale’s lovely corporeal body is lost in his, Crowley can almost feel an ethereal connection, a heightened sense of purpose and divinity that he can just recall from Before, like a dream minutes after waking; it’s usually something just out of reach, but here with Aziraphale, its warmth and reassurance seems to envelop him. He should attribute it to God, but it’s wholly Aziraphale.

He slips Aziraphale’s button-down off his shoulders. At some point one of them must have removed his pants too, but Crowley can’t recall when or how that happened because he’s too focused on Aziraphale’s mouth - the silken feel of their tongues together and the way Aziraphale’s breath hitches and sucks in some of his air - and then Aziraphale’s saying something into Crowley’s mouth, but fuck it’s hard to concentrate when he’s also squeezing Crowley’s ass like that. “ - need you, now. Please, now.”

Crowley doesn’t need to be told again. He guides Aziraphale onto all fours and spreads his legs apart, hands nudging his knees so that he can fit snugly behind him, and Aziraphale’s heavy thighs tremble as Crowley rubs his cleft and presses a finger gingerly against his hole again, just a little pressure, no entry, and Aziraphale keens a desperate prayer, “Please, please, please.” A string of cum glistens down his inner thigh, and Crowley would very much like to kiss it, to lick Aziraphale clean, but he can’t possibly when Aziraphale is pushing back against him, his porcelain skin wet like morning dew.

Crowley slips two fingers in and he’s so open, slick from Crowley’s tongue. Aziraphale reaches around, bats his hand away, “I’m ready, please Crowley, I need you.”

 _Fuck_. He can’t think coherently when Aziraphale is begging like that, can’t possibly comment or respond, so instead Crowley removes his briefs with a hand wave, and guides his cock to Aziraphale’s entrance, breaching the tight ring of muscle and pressing in until he’s sheathed deep, hips flush against his ass. Aziraphale is quivering beneath him.

“More, please, more.”

“Guess you’re in charge now?”

“Was there ever any question?” And Crowley laughs, settling into him completely before pulling only a few inches out and rocking back in.

He sets a relaxed pace, fights the urge to just slam into him; as good as it would feel, he needs this to last, needs to bring Aziraphale to the brink again. He’s achingly tight around him, hugging his cock, clenching with every movement. Crowley holds Aziraphale’s hips still, but his angel still pushes back, meeting his thrusts. His blonde head drops, and the slope of the back of his neck is _pleading to be kissed_ , and so Crowley drapes over him and sucks the damp flesh there, mouthing his hairline, his shoulder blades, the lovely sensitive spot where his wings join, and Aziraphale cries out.

“Do you want me to hold you down again, angel?”

Aziraphale stills, turns his head to face him as best as he can manage. “I know you’re not enjoying it as much as I am.”

“I enjoy watching you enjoy it though.” He stretches out completely over him, and threads their fingers together, his long torso fitting over Aziraphale’s body like they were made for each other.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale squeezes his hands, “maybe you could just keep talking to me? I think part of what was so appealing about it all, was just the idea of you wanting me, the notion that you’d desire me so much that you’d just have to take me if it came to that.” He swallows, “Maybe you could do that.”

“You’d better know that I want you. If you don’t, I’m doing a piss poor job of this couple business.”

Aziraphale laughs a little breathlessly. “Of course, my dear. It’s just nice to...hear it spelled out like that.”

Crowley rocks against him again, slow, and kisses his ear. “I think I can manage that.” 

He whispers:

_When I saw you in Eden, I thought you were the most perfect creature (no, I’m not joking, angel, just let me get there). I slithered around the Garden for a while you know, checked out the biomes. Heard so much about it, figured I might as well sight-see, have a little vacation from Hell and all that. There are some nice gardens in the world, but nothing’s ever come close - ever-blooming cherry blossoms and birds of paradise, mixed in with dahlias and every colour of tulips. Fields of wild orchids that stretched for miles and bushes of thornless roses. There were pools filled to bursting with lotuses and water lilies, and the stocks of gladioli and snapdragons were feet in the air. The hydrangeas were this pink-orange-yellow colour that I’ve never been able to find since - tried to get some for our garden but they just don’t exist anymore - sort of like the colour of a sunrise off a desert dune, but more vivid somehow; the colours blended together with almost visible brushstrokes, like a Van Gogh._

_And then I saw you and it made so much sense that you would have been chosen to guard it all. Standing on that wall, looking like something that would be sculpted in Florence several millennia later. You outshone it all._

_And if I was flippant or arrogant, well what else could I have said? Couldn’t very well have told you that you made this whole place seem tawdry in comparison, that next to you all the bloom shriveled and wilted, and that I had no idea why God would put so much blasted effort into this Garden when she already made you. (Oh, angel, it’s okay.)_

_I wanted to take your hand and lead you to this little dell I found: moss and clover-covered floor, with these old willows growing over it. The canopy was thick, shady, but the sun speckled through, glimmering sparkles on the green ground. Lavender grew at the edges and the whole place was perfumed by it, and all I wanted was to take you there, and lay you down on the soft clover and give you everything you wanted, things you never knew you wanted, things I never knew I wanted until I saw you. I wanted to undress you and worship you, exalt you, explore your hallowed body for any sign of imperfection, because it seemed so unfair to the rest of the universe that you could exist so flawlessly - and by the way, I’ve since checked every inch of you, and it turns out I was right, ‘course, and you are perfect._

Aziraphale bucks back against him, strains his neck trying to turn around and kiss him, touch him, _everything_ , and Crowley pulls out to a dissatisfied angelic groan, before scooting to sit at the edge of the bed and leading Aziraphale to him, helping him astride his lap. He pushes in effortlessly, Aziraphale bracing one hand on his shoulder, the other on his leg, and they rock together, more hurried now, kissing. Crowley holds him steady, squeezing his haunches, guiding him up and down with each thrust.

“You’re very sentimental, my dear.” He’s teasing but Crowley can see the wetness in Aziraphale’s eyes, and feel the way he clings to his shoulder, fingers digging in as if searching for an anchor.

“Call me precious and I’ll unseat you.”

“Empty threats.” Crowley catches his mouth again. He tastes like Earl Grey and Riesling and German chocolate cake; he tastes like ozone and stratosphere and stardust. 

Crowley slips his hand between them and takes hold of Aziraphale, fingers wrapping around his pulsing, slick length. Aziraphale moans and bounces a little higher, flexing his arms to get himself up off Crowley’s lap, before bottoming down, gasping at the impact. 

Still stroking him, Crowley leans back, pivots his hips just a touch to the left, looking for the right spot, and when Aziraphale keens, grinding down on his lap with a wanton urgency that makes Crowley moan, he knows he’s found it. “That’s it, angel,” Crowley says, thumbing his weeping slit as Aziraphale’s movements grow jerky, haphazard. Crowley guides him up and down, desperate for more contact, for just a little more. He’s so Goddamn close -

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale’s panting, weak-kneed, straining to maintain the pace he wants, and Crowley almost hisses as he pushes his angel back against the bed, keeping inside of him by some unconscious miracle, rutting against him and fisting his cock in tandem. Aziraphale sobs wordlessly, and jerks up, and Crowley is only briefly aware of the wetness between them before he lets go and loses control, slamming into Aziraphale with a few hard thrusts. 

He thinks he hears himself calling for his angel, but he’s not positive - he’s always calling for him somehow. His release is blinding, radiant and hot, and nothing short of sacred, buried deep inside a being of pure light, _his_ being of pure light, he thinks possessively.

Seconds, minutes, possibly millennia later, Aziraphale pulls him down, and Crowley wraps around him, pressing his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He can feel his pulse there, frenetic and so very human.

“That took a bit of a detour,” Crowley says. 

“Quite pleasant though.” 

“We can try again whenever you want, angel. Stick to the script next time.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I’d like to hear more about this Garden story actually.”

*

*

* 

They curl up on a blanket in a garden, their garden, and Aziraphale’s half gone on wine because the man can’t day drink for the life of him, and Crowley is only a quarter gone, okay maybe a third, but either way, he’s still too drunk to yell at the plants, which had been his plan for the afternoon until Aziraphale insisted on wine with lunch, and well - here they are now - just a little blitzed, snuggled on a blanket, Aziraphale thumbs through his latest book from the town bookshop. Another thriller, because the place sells little else, and Aziraphale puts it down with a sigh. 

“It’s rather terrible,” he says. “They’re all quite terrible if I’m being frank, but this one is just wretched.” 

“Might have to drive to Eastbourne to find another shop. Saturday?”

“That’s two days without a decent book. How will I pass the time?”

“Want to hear a story?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org).  
> Talk to me on [Tumblr](https://spunknbite.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spunknbite).


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